


pleasures remain

by Blake



Series: 30 Days of Depeche Mode Bagginshield ficlets [11]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Aging, Fluff, M/M, Married Banter, Married Life, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23996845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: After two centuries of backbreaking work and near-fatal blows, it’s a cruel twist of fate indeed that Thorin Oakenshield should be incapacitated by the simple act of giving his husband that which he most desires.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: 30 Days of Depeche Mode Bagginshield ficlets [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705147
Comments: 5
Kudos: 103





	pleasures remain

**Author's Note:**

> I am having so much fun turning these kinky prompts into fluff. This one's "pleasures remain, so does the pain." Yay!

Bilbo’s smile is uncharacteristically sweet for so early in the morning. He bustles around the kitchen with a bounce in his step. He keeps tucking his graying curls behind his ear in the flirtatious fashion of much younger hobbits whom Thorin has observed at markets and at parties. Every once in a while, Bilbo pauses with his legs pressed together, and Thorin can see the wake of the shiver of satisfaction running up his spine before it even erupts in the pleased hum that barely parts Bilbo’s lips.

It all makes Thorin quite happy, and so he sips his tea and lets it be refilled, never standing up and never mentioning the stitch of pain in his back discouraging him from doing so.

“How is my lovely brute of a king this morning?” Bilbo asks after refilling Thorin’s cup a third time. He perches on Thorin’s knee, squirming contentedly as he settles. Thorin bites down on the pain of the added weight twisting his back into further spasm, but is allowed a brief moment to silently grimace when Bilbo turns to the kitchen to make sure Frodo is still busy at the sink and not looking. Thorin manages a smile by the time Bilbo turns to him again. “I missed you,” Bilbo whispers.

As they have lived together and shared a bed for thirty years with very few nights apart, none of which occurred in the past year, Thorin knows that _he_ is not what Bilbo missed.

“I hope you found our _reunion_ as pleasant as I did,” Thorin says, holding himself stiffly whilst attempting to set his cup on the table. He wants to put his hands on Bilbo again, to feel the heat that had driven him past all thought of pain, to touch the warm, happy glow of his skin through his clothes.

Bilbo saves him the trouble by pinning him back into his seat and producing a purple flower from some hidden place in order to tuck it into his favorite spot behind Thorin’s ear, where the hair is now more silver than black. “I certainly did, and I aim to never leave you from my _sight_ for so long ever again.”

The sore spot in Thorin’s back sings in pain at the promise. His mind fills equally with dread as it does with the soft, blissful memories of last night, of heat clutching tightly at him and gripping him until his very soul was emptied, of Bilbo’s hands twisting knots into their sheets and the edges of curses that ripped every so often from the quiet seal of Bilbo’s mouth.

As Bilbo returns to the kitchen, Thorin slides into a telling slouch in his chair, seeking some relief for his back. It’s an absurd injury. He can’t believe himself. After two centuries of backbreaking work and near-fatal blows, it’s a cruel twist of fate indeed that Thorin Oakenshield should be incapacitated by the simple act of giving his husband that which he most desires.

But hearing the tune Bilbo whistles in the kitchen makes him certain that such a prize is worth any amount of pain. And he certainly had not been in pain the night before, not until the heat of their passion had cooled into stiff muscles and they settled into sleep. Perhaps his pain would fade after the morning and a little bit of work to get the blood running. Perhaps, soon, he could provide again what Bilbo apparently wanted more often than Thorin had realized.

Swinging his long-retired battle-axe to split wood for the fire does not, in fact, alleviate his pain. Nor does walking with Frodo to market and back. Nor does the shallow, cold bath he secretly makes himself that afternoon.

All throughout supper, Bilbo sends him sweet, knowing smirks across the table, as though he believes Thorin to be thinking as single-mindedly about what activities they might get up to as soon as Frodo goes to sleep. Thorin attempts to smile back, but he feels sweat prickling at his temples at the thought of moving his hips even a little.

Bilbo takes a sip of wine and says, “Frodo, do you think your Uncle Thorin looks quite well? I do believe it looks as though he’s ready to retire already.”

As soft and welcoming as the relief of their mattress sounds, he flinches away from the prospect and what might be expected of him. Fortunately, Frodo speaks to his defense. “But you made your famous peach tart for dessert!”

“So I did.” Bilbo’s smile turns as sticky-sweet as his baked goods as he lifts an eyebrow in Thorin’s direction. “Uncle Thorin would never pass up my peach tart. Would you?”

Feeling rather stuck between a rock and a hard place, Thorin clears his throat and answers, “Never.”

After Bilbo’s peach tart and some reading and songs by the fire, Frodo goes to his bed and Bilbo and Thorin to theirs. 

Bilbo is already naked and splayed out across the blankets when Thorin walks in. He’s a gorgeous sight for Thorin’s eyes to fall on, ever more beautiful as the years pass, softening him in some places and hardening him in others. Thorin’s blood surges, his mouth fills with want, and he hides his grimace of pain behind his tunic as he pulls it over his head.

“Come here,” Bilbo commands, and so Thorin drops to the bed, one knee at a time, attempting to hold himself up on all fours over Bilbo’s inviting body.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life,” Thorin whispers, attempting to will his hand to move to Bilbo’s side, where it longs to touch. But every time he tries to shift his weight, the knife in his lower back twists, drawing all his blood to the red blind spot overtaking his vision.

It’s not an easy reach—not with all the peach tarts Thorin has been eating for thirty years—but Bilbo’s arms slither around his middle and draw him close. Before Thorin can lower himself or react in any way, Bilbo is rubbing two cold, slick hands across the very epicenter of pain in his lower back. The relief hits Thorin immediately, spreads through his body as quickly as pleasure. He drops to his elbows and sinks lower, trying to slacken the muscle Bilbo is kneading, but without crushing him with the weight of his body.

“And you are the silliest husband I have ever had in my life.” Thorin opens his eyes from the blissful blue haze of relief and sees Bilbo smirking up at him. Suddenly, the knowing glances from across the dinner table take on a different light. How foolish Thorin had been, trying to hide something from the person who knows him best.

“I am your only husband, to the best of my knowledge.” Thorin gasps as Bilbo’s fingers tear into a particularly tough spot, and all he tastes is the laughter on Bilbo’s breath.

“The best of your knowledge is the best of mine. _I_ am not the one keeping secrets. Here, budge over.”

Without Bilbo under him, Thorin sinks heavily into the mattress, unable to stop the moans Bilbo’s clever hands elicit from him as his muscles loosen. “I was not keeping secrets. I just wanted to preserve your happiness. Your pleasure brings me pleasure.”

“You walked in here with every intention of suffering through the pain to ravish me the way you thought I wanted you to.”

“As I said, your pleasure brings me pleasure.” Thorin rubs his face against the pillow under him, which he realizes must be Bilbo’s pillow, for it smells just like him, and therefore makes him smile.

Bilbo’s hands soften, their movements stretching out into long strokes. “There are many ways to bring me pleasure, and hurting yourself is not one of them.”

“I am lucky to love someone who can so easily see where I am hurting.”

“I know your body fairly well. And your looks of panic. Turn over.” Bilbo’s hands guide him carefully onto his back. Though the absence of Bilbo’s pillow to breathe from is a great loss, the sight of him biting his lip appraisingly restores most of Thorin’s energy. The oil that had been used on his back finds new purpose between Bilbo’s thighs. Thorin watches Bilbo’s face eagerly, since he can’t comfortably lift his head very far to look closely at Bilbo working himself open. “I am sore, too, you know. It’s not as though I could take you again as I did last night. You were _perfectly_ relentless,” Bilbo says, just in time to prevent Thorin from catching hold of some feeling of guilt for being so thoughtlessly rough.

“I did notice you were sore,” Thorin claims happily, at last allowing himself the possessive pride that had been subdued by pain and frustration all day. Bilbo’s hand finds his cock in apparent approval. Thorin drops his hands to Bilbo’s spread legs, smoothing over them and sinking deeply into the simple bliss of Bilbo’s touch.

“Then you’ll forgive me for asking you to lie still and let me take this at my very own pace.” Bilbo’s voice is breathless, but Thorin doesn’t believe it’s from discomfort.

Thorin’s back may not be cured, but his arms work just fine. He pulls Bilbo down into a deep, sweeping kiss before releasing him again. “It would be my pleasure.”


End file.
